


And A Piece of Rope

by SoundandColor



Category: The Legend of Tarzan (2016)
Genre: Backstory, Canon - Movie, Courtship, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Parent Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8871868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoundandColor/pseuds/SoundandColor
Summary: Sometimes, when she tries hard enough, she can still see home like a postcard in her mind. The tall grass, that big blue wide open sky. She can see her daddy and his books and all the people they loved so dearly. She takes a breath and lets her lids slide open, stares out of the window glumly. All it does in England is rain.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [avani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/gifts).



 

It takes them a week to reach England and he’s still more out of it than in when they finally drop anchor. Even in this state, he’d been a handful during the journey. Kicking out at anyone who entered his cabin, refusing both medicine and food unless Jane delivered it. Her father allowed the indulgence even though she could tell he didn’t exactly enjoy their growing closeness, but, after their patient bit one of the deckhands so savagely the poor boy needed stitches, Archibald ordered her to stay in her cabin on the other side of the ship. Even there, blanket pulled up to her chin, she could still hear him shrieking in that godawful way no human being should be capable of.  Like one of the ghosts the people in her village whispered he was. The ones her father told her didn’t exist.

 

\---

 

She watches them take him off the boat from the deck, arms crossed over her chest.  Against her and her father’s wishes, he’d been tranquilized before he was put on a gurney and taken to the hospital for fear he’d over power the guards and make a run for it. She tries to imagine him alone in London and can’t quite make the picture work. He’s made for grass and trees, not cobblestones and bricks.

Her father steps up to her side and watches the scene below them for a moment before turning to face her. “I have to go to the college to shore up support for my studies in Africa. Get whatever you need, we’ll be on the next ship back.”

It’s what she wants, but… “And him?”

Archibald sighs, “He’s staying here.”

She turns quickly, eyes wide, and he puts his hand up to quiet her. “He needs a doctor for his back. Some of the best—”

“We can’t just leave! These people— “she shakes her head. “He doesn’t know anyone here and he’s only hurt because of me. I have to—”

Archibald takes her hands in his. “I am so thankful to him for saving you, so thankful. You are all I have and I can’t lose you.”

“Then we need to help him.”

“I understand why you feel responsible, but we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He needs more than we can give. He has to rebuild his strength under a medical doctor and we have to return to Africa to continue my studies.”

Knowing her father’s right, resigned, her eyes go back to the spot in the street where she saw him last even though the car is long gone now. “Then what? Where does he go?”

He turns and looks back down at the street, never says a word.

 

\---

 

It takes three days to gather all the supplies they’ll need back home. Soap, flour, cloth, sewing needles… she checks and double checks that everything is where it’s supposed to be before throwing on her coat and making her way to the hospital. Her father asked her to stay away and she’d promised she would, but Jane couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Not after what he did for her. Some of the professors’ wives volunteer their afternoons at the hospital, and she catches a ride with them over to the building, wringing her hands the entire way.

His eyes are already on the door when she pushes it open, watching her. She stops cold, then slips inside and shuts it behind her. “Hello,” she says and steps closer. He doesn’t respond, she hadn’t expected him to. “I just—” he takes another step closer. “We’re leaving, going back home I mean, and I wanted to say goodbye before—”

He starts trying to get up and she quickly moves forward to stop him, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He eyes her sharply and she backs off without ever making contact. “Okay. Easy.” She relents and tries not to hover as he sits up slowly.

He watches her, waiting, perfectly silent and his attention is like the brush of fingers against the inside of her forearm or a steady palm at the small of her back. It flusters her. The responses this stranger wrings from her body while hardly ever saying a word. 

“I wanted to thank you,” she finally says. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been there that day.” That’s a lie, she knows what would have happened. She just doesn’t want to think about it. He still hasn’t moved an inch or looked away from her face and she sighs. Jane crosses the floor and sits down next to him on the bed. “Do you understand anything I’m saying?”

He doesn’t respond to that either, barely acknowledges her presence except that now he’s looking at her hands, prim and folded in her lap. When he reaches forward timidly, she freezes, but doesn’t move away. She wants to know what he’s going to do next. She’s wearing lace gloves, and he follows the seam with his index finger until the tiny row of buttons going up her wrist steals his attentions. 

He follows the curve of one and she must move, must make some sort of sound because he raises his eyes to hers and for the first time since they came to England, she feels like he’s _seeing_ her. “Jane.”

She smiles. “Yes. It’s Jane.”

He smiles back and moves closer, too close. Her eyes dart to the door, but it’s still firmly shut against the outside world, against propriety and everything else telling her she never should have come here in the first place. He leans in, bypasses her mouth and runs his nose along the edge of her temple to the curve of her ear and down to the bend of her neck. Scenting her. Like the first time. Just like the first time she ever saw him. Jane takes a deep breath and lets her eyes fall closed. Decides to enjoy this, enjoy _him_ , as long as she can.  When he nuzzles in closer, she doesn’t think to push him away.

“Jane,” he goes no further, but she doesn’t need to him to. She hears the declaration in that single syllable. John grabs her hand and pulls it to his heart, looks at her with bright blue eyes and she understands everything. Everything he’s promising, everything he wants, everything he asks and needs and desires but can’t put into words so he’ll use his hands to touch her instead. He’ll use his lips and his own body to protect hers. He’d give up his life if she let him. “ _Jane_.”

“No.” She doesn’t know where the word came from. Where it found the strength to get past her lips when everything in her body feels heavy and soft and warm and drowsy with his nearness. Hearing it, hearing that word from her own mouth, sets her brain in motion and she repeats it, “No,” as she starts trying to put some space between them.

If he doesn’t understand the refusal itself, he understands the look on her face, her body language, because the soft touch of his hand is now an iron grip. “Jane?”

“You can’t. You can’t do that, promise me things when… When you haven’t—”

He shakes his head and pulls her closer to him, a determined look on his face, but she isn’t scared. Something inside of her knows this man would never hurt her. He just doesn’t understand and she has to make him see what she’s saying. That he can’t promise her the world when he’s only ever seen one tiny corner of it. She brings her elbow back sharply, breaking his hold as she gets off the bed.

He moves to go after her before a pained look crosses his face. He stills with a grunt and sits back.

She’s breathing hard, torn between going to him and walking away.  She wants to. She wants _everything_. Everything he’s offering and more and he’s looking at her like she’s _killing_ him. She takes a step forward when a nurse knocks twice and enters, stopping short when she sees Jane.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the woman says and Jane breathes, grabs her coat, remembers her purpose, remembers what’s right.

Her eyes meet his. “Thank you, truly.” With that, she turns her back and slips out the door.

 

\---

 

Jane takes care to never go too close to the hospital afterwards. She takes the long way to visit her father at the college, she goes to the shops on the other side of town. Due to her father’s work, they missed the first steamer back to Africa and they’ve been living in London for over three months now. The desire for home is like an itch beneath Jane’s skin. Archibald keeps saying they’ll be on their way soon, but his face looks tight and worried more and more these days.

She’s on her way to join him for lunch the first time she comes across the name _Clayton_. It’s splashed on the front-page of a weekly rag called The Neptune. _The Prodigal Heir Returns!?!?_ The salacious headline screams, with an ink drawing of a long haired man, his mouth turned into what looks like a fearsome growl, beneath.

 

 

> _We have all heard the sad tale of Lord and Lady Greystroke, a husband and wife lost at sea nearly 20 years gone. The empire Lord Clayton’s great-great grandfather built has been held together by their cousin, William Clayton, but an unknown man has suddenly appeared on London’s shores with a locket and journal known to have once belonged to those tragic figures we had previously thought to be forever lost beneath the waves—”_

“Miss Porter?”

It’s an older gentleman, one who looks vaguely familiar but that she can’t immediately place. Jane smiles politely, “Sir?”

“I work with your father at the college—“

“Of course,” she says with a warmer smile, remembers seeing his face behind the front desk of her father’s department, signing them in. “I—” She stops short at his pinched look. His face is red, he’s fidgeting and she feels something cold wash over her. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“There’s been an accident.”

 

\---

 

It was a heart attack in his office after a meeting with the board of the college. No one will tell her what was discussed, but there are whispers of misconduct, misuse of funds, accusations he went beyond the scope of his duties in Africa, allegations of _going native_. She fights, but there’s no use. He’s deemed to have been in breach of the contract they signed when giving him his grant to study in Africa and that’s all there is.

They take everything.

His journals, all of the books he had for the journey, the apartment they were lent while he was staying in England, the stipend. They let her keep the tickets back to Africa, but she has to plan a funeral now and another boat sets sail without her on it. Most of his meager savings goes toward a casket and a burial plot and when she’s through planning, there’s barely enough left to pay for a hotel room that week. She sits at the window and thinks of her mother’s funeral back in Baltimore. She was just a girl then—never really got to know her, barely remembers her mother’s face—but she misses her so fiercely right then that she can barely catch her breath.

The clock chimes the hour and she glances over. Thirty minutes from now, any other day, she would be gathering up her things and making her way to the college so they could have lunch. If she didn’t force him, sometimes her father wouldn’t eat at all. Too absorbed in some book or paper he was writing.

She stares at a photo of him with Wasimbu and wonders whether she made the right decision. It would’ve been expensive—too expensive, impossible— but she should’ve found a way to bring him home. The clock chimes for the second time and she stands sharply, before taking her seat again. Straightens her skirt, clenches and unclenches her hands, checks the time. It doesn’t matter, she has no place to go.

 

\---

 

She doesn’t leave the room for three days.

Doesn’t brush her hair or bathe or eat anything other than an orange she brought home for her father the day before he died. She doesn’t change her clothes or read. She sleeps, she cries, she stares at the ceiling and tries very hard not to think about anything at all.

On the fourth day she pulls a black dress from her trunk, washes up in the shared bathroom at the end of the hall, pulls her hair back neatly and goes to her father’s funeral.

 

\---

 

She doesn’t think about it afterward. She won’t. She can’t. There’s too much work to be done.

She finds new lodging first. There’s a Ladies Club above an ABC cafeteria on Oxford Street. It’s not the greatest area and the building is shabby, but affordable. She rents a modest room and begins looking for work.

Through it all, she keeps track of him.  The fight over his identity, the company, the money. His eventual acceptance into the aristocracy as a curiosity if not exactly a human being. The Greystroke heir. _John_. _The Courier_ claims that he’s attending board meetings this week, _The Daily Telegraph_ writes of his appearance at a weekly Clayton family dinner, _The Illustrated London News_ hints at a possible romance between he and a Miss Leona Maylie, of the Maylie Soap Empire, after they were spotted sitting very near to one another at the theater this past Friday night.

She takes the odd shift helping with the books in the cafeteria below her rooms and tries not to feel bitter. This is what she wanted for him. To be free to come into his own. To figure out who he wants to be at his own pace.

Two more months pass this way when one of the other women living in the club knocks on Jane’s door and lets herself in. Sara is a year older than Jane, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. The long dark hair, dark eyes and pale skin lends her a youthful look and she’s practically glowing as she leans back against Jane’s door. Her color’s up, a big smile spread across her face, “Keeping secrets are we?”

Jane has just finished up a shift and smiles wanly. She would prefer to clean up, read a book and go to bed, but the grin on Sara’s face doesn’t bode well for those plans. “Excuse me?”

“Acting so quiet and hardworking when all the while…”

“What are you taking about?”

Sara narrows her eyes and says in a sing-songy voice, “The gentleman down stairs.”

She suddenly has Jane’s full attention. “Who?”

“John Clayton! _Tarzan_! He’s waiting downstairs for you!” She’s fairly vibrating with excitement. “When he was on the cover of Punch I—” Jane listens with one ear, feels stuck in place. She never thought he would forget her, she just didn’t imagine he would take the time, during everything that was happening with his extended family, to track her down. To come and visit…

 “— always knew you had secrets. The quiet ones—“

“Sara?” The girl goes quiet and listens with wide eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Oh yes,” she says, pulling her cover-up closer to her body. Takes one final look around the room before leaving and closing the door softly behind her. Jane takes a look in the mirror. Her hair’s up, but little wisps of blonde curls have floated free around her face. There’s a stain of something on the cuff of her dress but there’s no time to change. She goes to her washbowl, splashes her face, dries up and makes her way downstairs to greet her guest.

 

\---

 

She sees the back of him first, his hands clasped low, as she descends the stairs of The Somerville Club. He’s in a suit, supple black fabric with a hint of gold at the cuffs. His head shifts to the side as she steps onto the parquet floor at the bottom of the steps and if she had a notion to run, it would be too late, he already knows she’s there.  Jane smiles slightly and pulls the door to the sitting room open.  She takes three steps down into the sitting room and says, “Hello.”

He turns to face her and smiles in return. “Good afternoon, Jane Porter.”

The crisp English accent is such a shock; she takes a step back and nearly tumbles. The clothes are one thing, a costume he must wear to survive the streets of London, but this… She’s amazed by how far he’s come in five months, stunned by how thoroughly they’ve tamed him. John’s beside her in an instant, hand wrapped firmly around her upper arm as she rights herself. She clears her throat and straightens out her dress, thanks him and, after swiveling her around to reverse their position so his own back is now to the stairs, he slowly releases his grip on her with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” she answers quickly, embarrassed. “How have you been? I… Should I call you John now?

“Yes. John Clayton.”

“ _Lord_ Greystroke.”

He frowns a little at the title and she almost apologizes, but then he’s speaking again. “I heard about your father. I wanted you to know how sorry I was to hear of his death.”

Jane feels the telltale prickle of fresh tears and looks away, “I’m sorry myself.”

“I wish you had called on me…” She knows she should have but everything happened so quickly. Jane looks away and he continues. “If there is anything I can do—”

“It’s under control,” she answers a little more sharply than necessary. This feels…wrong. He’d been familiar to her since the moment they met, but the man in front of her seems like a stranger. “I don’t need anything.” He’s watching her steadily, a curious look on his face and she feels her heart soften.

“I came here to say your father was a good person and more than that, he was kind. He never treated me like anything other than a human being and I was not able to properly thank him for that so I will thank you instead. Jane Porter, I—”

His words are slow, perfectly enunciated and obviously rehearsed. She feels sudden, hot anger well up inside of her. “Did they make you come here?” she cuts in.

He looks confused, “They?”

“The board,” she says, frustrated.  Wondering why they would even bother when she was already so thoroughly beaten. “Did they think they could use you to get more of my father’s work? They already took it! I don’t have to—”

“No,” he says quickly. “I wanted— I came here to—” now that she’s thrown him off script, the cultured upper crust accent loses some of its polish. He licks his lips, pauses, seems frustrated at his halting speech. “I apologize,” he finally says, obviously embarrassed, and she realizes that this is why the first part of their conversation felt so unnatural. Why he felt the need for a script. She imagines him sitting at his desk, thinking about what he wants her to know, maybe getting someone’s help to write it all down, practicing exactly what he’ll say and she feels her heart soften. Even with everything he’s achieved, she can still see hints of the man he was.

“Will you ever go back home?”

John looks off at something she can’t see. “My parents never wanted that life for me.”

 _If your parents ever got the privilege of knowing you_ , Jane thinks, _they may have changed their minds_. She doesn’t say it. It isn’t her place.

“It’s just that your father tried to—” he gets back on topic, narrows his eyes in annoyance, stops and takes a breath. “He was… good. I wish you had called on me.”

“I wish I had too, you deserved to know. It just got away from me with everything that was happening.”

“They took away his work.”

“They took everything.”

He grips her forearm. “Not everything.”

His touch is a comfort; his presence makes her feel safe. Safer than she’s felt since her father died and she suddenly can’t stand having him here. This is her life now, this cafeteria, the Somerville Club, London… She can’t have him; he deserves time to figure out how to be human and his comfort can’t be anything but cold.  “You have to go.”

“Jane.”

“I can’t.”

He studies her and she can see him struggling with what he wants and what she needs. Finally, he turns on his heel and softly closes the door behind himself.

 

\---

 

Nine weeks pass and he doesn’t contact her.  She makes no effort to contact him.

Jane starts biting her nails, she ignores Sara’s prods for information and throws herself into finding a more permanent position.   

She asks the ladies she used to commute to the university with if they need a lady’s companion. She applies for a job as a governess, but not many of the well to-do families of London want their children speaking _Lingala_ as a second language. Jane leans back and closes her eyes. Sometimes, when she tries hard enough, she can still see home like a postcard in her mind. The tall grass, that big blue wide open sky. She can see her daddy and his books and all the people they loved so dearly. She takes a breath and lets her lids slide open, stares out of the window glumly. All it does in England is rain.

“Let’s go to the theatre.” Sara says one night as Jane climbs the stairs for bed. “You’ve been so blue and—” She stops at the look on Jane’s face before continuing meekly. “I think it might cheer you up is all.”

Jane’s been avoiding her since John’s visit and she’s really just trying to help… Sara licks her lips at Jane’s quiet and continues. “There’s a new play and I would love to see it! You’ll have fun too!” Jane looks at the door to her room before making up her mind.

“Just let me go and wash up.”

Sara fairly leaps in joy, “twenty minutes?”

“I’ll be down.”

Four hours later, Jane thinks Sara was right, though it pains her to admit it. This is exactly what she needed. A fun, stress free, night on the town with a new friend. They link arms on their way from the building and Jane’s considering if she should bring up a restaurant they can go eat in when they walk directly into someone. Not someone, something. Shiny black boots and a skirt, the widest dark blue skirt she’s ever seen which happens to be attached to one of the richest women in London, Miss Maylie.

She looks annoyed before she lays eyes on Jane. There’s a flicker of recognition there, a slight sigh. Then she sticks her hand out for a limp shake, manners once again, impeccable. “I’m Miss Maylie”

“I’m—”

“I know your name, Miss Porter. We share a certain acquaintance, at least according to the papers since he’s never mentioned you, John Clayton.”

 

Jane can feel the smile on her face stiffen. “Yes. We know one another. I actually haven’t seen him quite in some time. Give him my best?”

“Of course,” she says lightly, but Jane has an idea that Leona won’t ever tell John she saw her at all.

“Well it was nice to meet you,” Jane tries, suddenly tried. “I must be getting back—”

“Also, and I don’t mean to be rude,” she goes on as though Jane never spoke at all, “I heard your name from the Temples. They say you’re looking for a position with a family.”

There’s nothing shameful about looking for work, but Jane feels a prickle of annoying unease anyway. “That’s right.”

“I’ll make sure to put in a good word with my friends. Any associate of John’s is someone I like to keep my eye on. I’ll offer any assistance I can.”

“Thank you.”

“Though, if you’re serious, you should definitely make sure to brush up on your skills. No one wants a common employee.”

“Common?”

“Jane,” Sara starts, sensing where this is headed, before she’s shaken off and Jane crosses her arms over her chest.

“I was raised by my father in the Congo so, unlike others, I never had the option of being common.”

“The Congo, how frightful!” Leona gushes, her hand over her heart. “No wonder you need assistance here in civilization.”

“You’re right. My father and everyone else in the village were too busy making sure all of its members were fed and clothed to be certain I had the latest fashions and learnt flower arrangement. Truly disgraceful on our part.”

“Well I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you anyway.”

Jane knows then that she’ll be at the ABC for the rest of her life. That Leona will destroy her reputation with these people simply because someone mentioned John’s and her name in the same breath. “Don’t bother,” she says. “I think I like my current employment just fine. Much better company.”

“Hmm,” Leona demurs.

 “Goodnight, Miss Maylie.”

“Goodnight, Miss Porter.”

They watch one another for a moment, then Jane takes Sara’s arm and walks her back home.

 

\---

 

She’s not surprised to see him standing outside of the ABC early the next morning. It’s cold and she pulls her coat tight around her, “Sara or Leona?”

“Neither, actually. Someone who works on the estate happened to be at the theater and saw you two conversing.” He takes a breath and tries not to smile. “Are you through being stubborn now?”

Jane groans, and starts walking toward the shops, John close at her back. “Shouldn’t you be escorting Leona somewhere?” She looks ridiculous, bringing the other woman up, but she can’t help herself. It nags at her, the thought of the two of them together.

“Leona was not as bad as she seemed,” he says and at the frown on Jane’s face, the smile he was fighting breaks through bright and clear. “She was actually quite sweet to me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want her, I never did. The only reason we were ever together is because you, for some strange reason, needed us to be.”

“I wanted you to see what London had to offer. I never—”

“You said—”

Jane stops in the middle of the sidewalk and stands tall. “Well if I told you to jump into the Thames, would you do that, too?”

“For you?” he asks, head tilted to the side, his hands in his pockets. “I would. Gladly.”

Jane looks at him with narrowed eyes. She can’t figure out if he really knows what he’s saying, but she’s tried being delicate, she’s tried to not hold him responsible for the things he offers when just a short seven months ago he couldn’t speak to her at all, but that time has passed.

Jane decides to lay her cards down forthrightly and honestly. “I didn’t want you to promise something you would regret later on.  I was the only woman you’d ever seen who didn’t run screaming in the other direction,” she says with a sharp bark of laughter. “You didn’t know anything about the world and I just— I wanted you to choose me. Not just because there were no other options but because you wanted to. I had to make sure that—”

“Why did you wait so long to tell me this?” he asks. “I thought… I was not even sure you wanted me at all.”

“How was I supposed to tell you when you couldn’t speak?”

“During our last visit. You could’ve told me all of this.”

“Would you have understood?”

She has seen John as many times since she met him: angry, confused, afraid. This is the first time she’s seen him look disappointed. “You think me incapable of understanding a promise or loyalty or love?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “Of course not. Especially not now! I wasn’t sure if you would understand what those things mean in _this_ world back then. How serious—”

“In the jungle, _those things_ mean the difference between life and death. Between eating and starving. They mean the difference between family and enemy. Is there anything more serious than that?”

Jane takes a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry, I was afraid. I had no idea who you were and you almost died saving me. I felt...

“Jane.” He doesn’t grab for her hand this time. He doesn’t pull her forward into his space or grip her so tightly to his chest she can barely breathe. He now understands that he doesn’t need to do any of those things to let his desire be known and Jane rethinks her stance on his newfound civility. Loses her handle on what exactly it means to be tamed.

“I chose you the first moment I saw you.” John says as he stands before her, holding his hand out, palm up, waiting for a decision.

Her answer is her hand in his. “Well, all right I guess,”

He smiles wide and despite everything she’s sure they’ve taught him about propriety and respect and civility, he pulls her into his space and kisses her full on the mouth in front of anyone who decides to look their way.  This is what she wanted, she realizes, angling her mouth so the two of them fit even closer. She wanted to make sure he was still him. Still the man she met in the jungle what seems a lifetime ago. “I was so afraid,” she mutters when his lips finally leave her mouth long enough for Jane to finish a sentence. “I worried that you’d become…” she swallows, “ _a gentleman_.”

He laughs and she feels that sound from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Never,” he whispers and kisses her again. Slips his hand into hers and holds it tight. “Never would I dream of doing such a thing,” and when he wraps his free arm around her waist and pulls her in closer, she believes him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> >   
> _"Then I am to take it that Monsieur Tarzan would prefer to go naked into the jungle, armed only with a jackknife, to kill the king of beasts," laughed the other good naturedly, but with the merest touch of sarcasm in his tone._  
>  _" **And a piece of rope** ," added Tarzan.”_  
> ― Edgar Rice Burroughs, Tarzan of the Apes 
> 
> Thank you so much for being my beta, [RidiculousMavis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RidiculousMavis/pseuds/RidiculousMavis). You were a lot of help.


End file.
